


until the blame grows too heavy

by Morimaitar



Category: DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: A Little Dick/Tommy, Blackmail, Creepy Roman Sionis, Daddy Kink, Deal with a Devil, Depression, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dissociation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gunplay, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Nightwing 109, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Rough Sex, Unhappy Ending, Victim Blaming, as a treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:27:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28249890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morimaitar/pseuds/Morimaitar
Summary: Dick will do anything to keep the Tevis family safe.Anything.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Tommy Tevis, Dick Grayson/Roman Sionis
Comments: 18
Kudos: 61





	until the blame grows too heavy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [withthekeyisking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/gifts).



> For the incredible Q, who can have a little darkfic (as a treat). Happy Holidays, buddy ol' pal! I tried to tick all your favorite boxes because you deserve only the best. Thank you for granting me the honor of being your friend!
> 
> Please mind the tags.

**_After_ **

He could have quit at any time. 

In the shower Dick takes a washcloth to his skin, scrubs until his body is raw and red, scrubs despite the pain and shallow cuts that bleed into the fabric. There is no more hot water, but he welcomes the cold. Numbness would be a pleasure. A luxury, even. Maybe, if he scrubs hard enough, he’ll wear himself away.

But no. His senses remain, dulled but unforgiving. Touch: the texture of the cloth, the freezing temperature of the water as it plasters his hair to his forehead. Sight: bite marks and scarred skin. Hearing: a gurgling drain, ragged breaths. Smell: lemon soap. Taste: blood and salt. 

_Fingers digging bruises into its hips, legs pushed apart, hot breath at its ear, teeth breaking the skin of its collarbone…_

_Clean,_ he thinks. He just needs to be clean. 

Taking a bar of soap, he lathers his chest. There is pain as it seeps into the cuts across his chest, stinging and burning as it assaults the raw, sensitive skin. Still, it’s nothing compared to the ache that throbs deep inside him. Dick stands under the cold water and squeezes his eyes shut, biting his tongue as he takes a shuddering breath. 

After everything—after Bruce and Babs and Blockbuster and Catalina—this is the least Dick can do. Just a temporary pain, just this once. For Tommy and his family. Then maybe he can call himself a hero again, a _real_ hero, one who doesn’t fail to save those he loves. 

This was the right thing to do, he tells himself. And besides—it’s not like it hasn’t happened before. Years ago. Months ago.

At least this time it was his decision. This time wasn’t because he had failed. 

The water washes down red. It’s cold as empty space but his skin is on fire. Dick takes the washcloth to his arms, neck, face, pictures the bruises rinsing down the drain. At least, he assumes there are bruises. He has yet to look at his face.

When he gets to his—to _that part_ of his body, he squeezes his eyes shut and inhales sharply. Nausea rises in his throat. He swallows it down, braces himself against the wall of the shower as his legs begin to shake. There’s nothing left for him to vomit, anyway. 

After a moment, the sensation goes away, and he feels only pin-pricks against his skin. This is a doll’s body. Not his own. 

Dick takes the washcloth between his legs and does what needs to be done, pushing inside the sensitive rim. The doll’s body protests with a sharp pain and a sharper humiliation, but then it’s over and he can let out a shuddering breath. 

With stiff fingers he shuts off the water. The chill comes quickly after. It soaks into his skin, but Dick can’t bring himself to care. He stands still, staring at the pink-tinged water that runs in rivulets down his inner thigh. It disappears against the darker color of his calves, then appears again on the clean white tile beneath his feet. 

Another shuddering breath. Then he swallows bile and turns on the water once again. In the water he sees a masked face, hears Lynette’s voice echoing in his ears. _Don’t go, Richard. Don’t go to Gotham with Tommy…_

It was his decision, he reminds himself. He could have quit at any time.

After, he takes a towel from the rack and pats himself dry. He checks the fabric twice for any stains—no one deserves to clean up his mess—then, at last, steps out into the motel bathroom. 

Red shirt, torn and stained with blood. His tie is bloody too, not that the black fabric would show it. But Dick remembers the feel of it around his wrists, cutting off the circulation and soaking up the hot, thick liquid that ran down his arms. Then there’s his vest , wrinkled and smeared with dried spit and—

And his pants are torn at the knees. His shoes are mostly untouched. 

Dick clutches the towel tighter around his body and stares for a long minute. Shame grows inside his chest, heavy and hot and enough to make him tremble. _Weak_ , it hisses. 

Weak for letting Blockbuster die. Weak for Mirage. Weak for Catalina. Weak for feeling shame when it was _his_ decision this time. 

Taking slow, controlled breaths, Dick walks over to his suitcase and pulls out a med kit before looking at the doll in the mirror. There are dark circles beneath its eyes. Its face is devoid of color. The cuts on its body are shallow, no stitches required. And there are bruises: deep purple bruises on its wrists and hips and thighs; small red bruises on its chest.

_Strong hand cutting off its air, squeezing until it sees stars, squeezing until it doesn’t care about the hips slamming against its own, doesn’t care about the dirty words and the smell of sweat, because all it wants is to breathe again…_

Dick slaps on a few bandages and steps into clean clothes. It hurts to move, but he grits his teeth and carries on, slipping into untorn boxers and thick sweatpants. Then he puts on a tee and a sweatshirt, pulling the hem as far down as it will go. 

_Not weak,_ he thinks. 

See how well he is doing. See how strong he is when he limps over to the bed and does not collapse. See how he doesn’t get up to triple-check the lock on the door. See how he curls his knees into his chest and tries not to sob. See how hard he tries not to break apart. 

* * *

**_Before_ **

It is raining when he comes to their doorstep. 

Dick’s heart pounds in his chest as he stumbles on crutches through the dark, feeling the slick wet soak through his jacket. He can’t breathe. He can’t _breathe,_ and the world is falling apart around him: suburbs crumbling into asphalt, bark peeling from trees to reveal brick and wire. A car passes him; he hears a gunshot in its engine. A body falls at his feet, a dull thud against the metal of the stairwell. The last of his breath hitches in his throat. 

It’s over. He _knows_ that it’s over, knows that Blockbuster is long dead and Catalina is gone. But still the rain keeps coming and he tastes blood and feels it hot and thick over his gloves, and all of a sudden he’s failing Bruce all over again, failing Catalina, failing himself. _Poisonous. Numb._ And Dick can feel her weight on top of him, and he still isn’t breathing, and all he can do is keep a shaking grip on the card in his hand as approaches the brick-red door and knocks. Once. Twice. Three times. 

When his strength fails, he squeezes his eyes shut. His wounded leg begins to tremble. 

_You hold that stuff inside you too much,_ the man said. _It will do things to you._

“Tommy,” he gasps, when a woman opens the door. “He said—he said I could—” 

This time, when he loses his breath, it doesn’t come back. He chokes on nothing—the woman reaches out for him—and everything goes black. 

When Dick comes back, he’s inside the home. There are blankets around his shoulders and a roaring fire at his side. He looks around, dumbly, waiting for danger to strike. But he finds none. Only a mug of tea, and a pair of soft brown eyes. 

They belong to a handsome older man, who sets down the mug and takes Dick’s hands in his own. They’re warmed from the mug. Callused, but so gentle that Dick has to bite back a sob. 

“Breathe, son,” the man tells him. “You’re safe now.” 

_Safe,_ Dick thinks. Yes, yes. He feels safe. Not that he deserves it. 

“My name is Tommy,” the man says. “Tommy Tevis. Do you remember?” 

Dick remembers turning himself in. He remembers no one listening when he told them just how guilty he was. He remembers them letting him go free. And he remembers Tommy.

 _You hold that stuff inside you too much_ . _It will do things to you._

Swallowing, Dick nods. 

“This is my wife, Lynette,” Tommy says, nodding toward the woman across the room, “and my daughter, Sophia.” 

Dick knows he should look at them. He should look, and he should smile. Be a person again. But all he can see is Tommy’s kind face, inches from his own. _I don’t deserve this,_ he wants to say, but doesn’t. 

“You’ll be okay, Crutches,” the man says. “You’re with us now. You’re safe.” 

_Safe,_ Dick thinks again, feeling the rain dry on his skin. Here he is with the Tevis family, and here he is safe.

Maybe this was the right decision. Maybe he is going to be okay. 

***

Dick isn’t Nightwing anymore, hasn’t been since he failed to step in front of Catalina’s bullet. He knows that he doesn’t deserve it, knows that he’s a bad person, knows that the Tevis family has every right to throw him back out onto the street. 

Except they don’t. 

The Tevises aren’t like the Maronis, or the Falcones, or any other family he used to fight in Gotham. They’re _people,_ real, down-to-earth people who love each other. All they want is to protect their own, and Dick… Well. He is in no position to condemn anyone for hurting others to protect those that they love. Glass houses, and all that.

No cops, no capes, no killing, no kids. Those are Dick’s only rules. And they respect that. They respect _him._

Tommy isn’t like Bruce. No curt goodbyes, no angry words or disappointed silences. The man wears his pride openly, complimenting Dick for a job well done, always smiling widely. _Is this guy a prince or what?_ he’ll say, patting Dick on the cheek or slinging an arm around his shoulders. Sometimes he even draws Dick in for a hug.

Dick doesn’t know when he started looking forward to doing jobs with Tommy, just like he doesn’t know when he started caring for this family as much as he does. But he _does_ care for them. Even though he wishes he didn’t, he can’t help but ache for Tommy’s praise and Lynette’s smiles and Sophie’s childish adoration. They know _exactly_ who he is, and yet… 

They _hold_ him. They _love_ him. They make him feel like he _belongs._ And it’s so, so much more than he deserves.

 _I’m in this now,_ he tells Tommy. _I’m gonna stay in this. With you._

So when the man asks him to go to meet with Black Mask, Dick knows that he will. He knows that he has to, even after Lynette sits him down and fixes him with her doe eyes. 

“Don’t go, Richard,” she says, wrapping a hand around his forearm. “Don’t go to Gotham with Tommy.” 

For a moment, he considers agreeing. His gut twists as he pictures losing this family to the business. Black Mask is bad news, the kind that has his skin crawling and his mind going to dark places. Dick’s seen enough of Gotham Crime to know how this ends.

And yet, when he tries to tell her that he won’t go, his voice fails. Instead, he says, “Lynette, I—I’ll be okay. I promise.” 

Her face doesn’t fall, as he expects it will. With a soft smile she cups a hand over his cheek, holding him with a gentleness he has yet to earn. “Oh, honey,” she says, still smiling. “I can’t believe you grew up without a mother. You’re just so good!” 

Dick’s throat tightens. He opens his mouth to speak, but finds there is nothing to be said. They can’t know the truth. Because if they do, then surely they will see how little he is worth, and then he really will have no one. 

He watches her leave, growing heavier by the second. She’s right, he _knows_ she’s right. But he also knows that he can’t leave Tommy all alone with Black Mask. The man would eat him alive. 

_It’s just this once,_ he thinks, as he packs his bags. _I’ll be okay as long as I don’t get personally involved. I can quit this any time._

***

They’re alone together. They shouldn’t be alone together. 

Dick stares at the man before him, trying to appear cool and unbothered. It’s not the first time he has been face-to-face with Roman Sionis, though this time it feels different, more…intimate. This time there is no suit, no gunfire, no Bat Signal. This time he’s only Dick Grayson, estranged son of Bruce Wayne, at the mercy of the Black Mask. 

He can still hear Tommy and Ray. Their footsteps echo throughout the empty warehouse, growing quieter and quieter until they disappear completely. 

_Let me have a moment with “Crutches”, gentleman. I’d like to have a word about the job._

Dick swallows. Already his skin has started to crawl, and his pulse quickens with each silent moment. Training has him scope out the area for weapons, for an escape route, but this does little to quell the sick anticipation. 

Finally, he speaks. “You wanted to talk business?” 

Black Mask—Roman—threads his fingers together. He leans forward over the table, blue eyes glinting behind his mask. “Richard Grayson,” he says coolly, over-enunciating each syllable as if tasting them on his tongue. 

Dick says nothing. 

“You’re Wayne’s boy, aren’t you.” Slowly, his eyes crawl over Dick’s body, face to chest to thighs. His gaze would be amused, if not for the hunger that passes beneath, floating by like a fish in a bowl. “What did daddy do to drive you here?”

Shifting his weight, Dick looks at the bloodstained floor. He can feel the man staring at him still, and bites his tongue to hold back the irritation. “You want to talk business,” he says. “So talk.”

Roman chuckles as he stands, straightening his tie. He’s taller than Dick remembers, broader too. As he approaches Dick slowly every movement is awashed with an aura of power and control. _The major leagues,_ Tommy said, and now that Dick is here the difference between the two mobsters has never been more obvious. 

As Dick looks up into the mask, he thinks, _malevolent._

“My my,” the man murmurs, smirking. He’s too close; the proximity has Dick mapping the exits again. “Someone is certainly eager to please. No wonder Tommy keeps you around.”

“Tommy is a good man,” Dick replies, frowning at the implications. 

“Mmm. You are close?” 

It’s a trap. But for what, Dick doesn’t know. The thought of it leaves an anxiousness just beneath his skin, humming like a live wire. 

He chooses his words carefully. “He is my employer,” he says. “I would benefit from his promotion.” 

“So serious!” Roman laughs, patting Dick’s shoulder as if to placate him. The gesture has Dick’s stomach lurching. “Surely a good boy like you could use a chance to loosen up a bit.”

“I’ll have no trouble scouting out Blüdhaven,” Dick says. “You can expect my report by the end of the week.”

“Slow down, _Richard,”_ the man replies, voice slick and sweet. He gestures to a chair. “Please, sit.”

Dick sits, eager to remove himself from Roman’s shadow. “Is there something else you’d like from me?” he asks, barely able to conceal his discomfort as the man takes a seat beside him. 

“That’s up to you, Richard. Didn’t your daddy ever teach you how to run a business?” 

“We’re not close.”

“Pity,” Roman hums. He holds a gloved hand up to his mouth—where his mouth should be—his gaze placid, easy-going. “Pity about your _Tommy_ too.”

Dick stiffens as the words pierce his skin. “Ex—excuse me?”

But Roman merely laughs. “Come now, Richard. Surely your daddy taught you some things, yes? Like how to tell a weak man from the strong.”

It’s like his blood has turned to ice. He sucks in a sharp breath, unable to do anything but stare, unable to hear anything but Lynette’s voice in his head. _Don’t go, Richard. Don’t go to Gotham with Tommy…_

Heartbeat ringing in his ears, Dick grips the arms of the chair, struggling to maintain his cool facade. “I should be going,” he says tightly, moving to stand.

A gloved hand wraps around his wrist, squeezing just hard enough to get the warning across. Breath catching in his lungs, Dick looks into Roman’s mask and finds amused eyes staring back at him. He shudders.

“You took out five of my men like it was nothing,” Roman comments, eyes falling down Dick’s chest. He makes a show of releasing him. “Color me surprised.” 

Dick’s mind races to find words that won’t make everything fall apart. Finally, he says. “I’m just doing my job.”

Roman hums, a sound that has Dick’s pulse quickening. He leans in closer, so close Dick can smell the rich scent of his cologne, so close Dick can make out the streaks of gray in his irises. Slowly, the man drags his finger casually along the edge of Dick’s vest, down the knot of his tie, lower and lower, until Dick’s breath hitches. “Someone like you belongs in the big leagues,” he says, making no effort to remove his hand from Dick’s body. “I’d love to see how _good_ you can be.” 

It’s not like when Tommy praises him. Tommy compliments are bright and warm, accompanied by genuine smiles and quips that make Dick feel like part of the family. Roman’s words are slick and uncomfortably hot, underscored by mockery and a hunger that has Dick gripping the edge of his seat. 

“I am content to remain where I am,” Dick replies, though his own words are lost in the rush of his pulse and the uneven pace of his breath. 

The mobster smirks beneath his mask. “Come now, Richard,” he says, chuckling. “Let me take care of Tommy.” 

Dick’s heart stops as the words pierce like a knife. He opens his mouth to speak but trips over his thoughts, unable to untangle himself from the horror that grips him like a vice. 

_No. He can’t—_

“Yes,” Roman says, as if he can see the struggle behind Dick’s eyes. “You’re a smart boy. Surely you didn’t think I’d trust any low-life scum with my business. Best to wipe out the competition and expand on my own.”

At long last, Dick forces out, “Tommy—The boss is a good man.” 

“And good men make horrible business partners.” 

“You can’t,” he snaps, unable to hide the anger in his voice, the fear. He curses himself for coming here, for not listening to Lynette, for thinking for one moment that someone like him would be able to keep Tommy safe. He’s so stupid, so god damn _stupid…_

Why did he let Tommy come? Why couldn’t he have told him the truth? Why does he always have to make everything _worse?_

“You can’t,” Dick says again, meaning, _I can’t let you._ _I can’t fail another person._

“Shh, shh,” Roman coos, lifting Dick’s chin and chuckling when Dick wrenches away. “You understand, don’t you, Richard?” 

_Failure!_ screams the voice in Dick’s mind. He sees Kori, sees Babs, Bruce, Blockbuster, Catalina, hears gunshots, feels rain, watches Tommy and Lynette and Sophia bleeding out onto the asphalt, sobbing and dying and knowing all the while that he’s to blame—

“No,” he mutters, gritting his teeth and hating how _pathetic_ he must look. He should fight, he should _fight,_ but his body is frozen and he _can’t._ His heart is a drum in his ears and every time he inhales bile rises in his throat. “I’ll—I’ll work for you. I’ll do anything.” 

A smirk passes over Roman’s eyes. “Anything?” he purrs, and his fingers are back again, brushing dust from the wine-colored fabric of Dick’s shirt. 

“Anything,” Dick whispers, giving up the last semblance of control. 

Because this is his fault, isn’t it? If he had only spoken up, only told Tommy exactly the kind of man they were dealing with, then none of this would have happened. It’s his responsibility to make things right. And he will not fail the Tevis family, will not fail anyone ever again. He _can’t._

This is what he wants. This is what he deserves.

***

 _It’s just this once,_ Dick thinks, as the first kiss is pressed to his jaw and he forces himself to go slack with surrender. Hands grab his ass and squeeze roughly, kneading with the intent to bruise. But he can take it, he _wants_ to take it. 

_Just once,_ Dick thinks, as he is shoved to his knees and Roman undoes his belt. Now the hand is around his throat, cutting off his air, and he sputters and whines and keens because he knows that’s what Roman wants. 

_It’ll be okay,_ Dick thinks, as the man slaps him and makes him count, one two three four, before shoving the barrel of a gun down Dick’s throat. The sharp tang of metal and gunpowder fills him as Roman forces it deeper and tells him to _suck harder, baby._ And Dick does, meeting Roman’s as he sucks the barrel down and tries to focus on this one simple task, tries not to think of what will happen if he doesn’t please him… 

_I’m okay,_ Dick thinks, as the gun is replaced with Roman’s cock and he stops inhabiting his body. This isn’t him, gagging on the mobster’s length. This is just a doll, a slut, a whore, and this is what it deserves. 

_I’m not personally involved,_ Dick thinks, as the doll is stripped of the remainder of its clothes and laid bare over the table, bleeding onto the cheap wood veneer. Its back is striped red from Roman’s belt, its chest marred with shallow cuts from his knife. It has stopped feeling pain long ago, even if the humiliation remains.

 _I can quit this any time,_ Dick reminds himself, as Roman fucks the doll hard and fast, squeezing its throat and laughing as it writhes and cries but makes no attempt to get away. It’s just a doll. This was its choice. It has to take it, and it will. 

* * *

**_After_ **

Dick wakes to pain. 

He’s sweat through his clothes, soaked the scratchy motel sheets. Without looking he can tell that his skin has split open again, and when he lifts his clothes he will see dried blood and raw skin. The pain is disgustingly intimate, from the sharp burns of torn skin to the throbbing ache of the bruises along his thighs. His body is heavy, so heavy that the slightest movement will surely kill him, crushing his ribs and tearing his organs. 

He lies still. Tears have dried on his cheeks, leaving behind a sticky mess that he can’t think about. He can’t think about anything. His mind is static. 

Finally, piece by piece, he begins to move. First his hands, then his forearms, then his shoulders as he pushes himself into a sitting position. Everything hurts. By the time he is fully upright, fire has spread throughout his body, burning hottest between his legs. 

A sob catches in his throat as he tries to bend his knees. He knows there’s tearing, could tell last night in the shower. Still, he keeps moving, biting back whimpers as his ass protests even the smallest shift of his body. Saliva pools around his tongue as nausea rises in his throat again. 

It wasn’t rape. That’s all he can think about. Not rape, because it was his choice. He was in control the whole time. Dick would have said something if he wasn’t. 

_A knife at its throat—the smell of sweat—those filthy words—“There’s my good little whore…”_

Finally— _finally_ —he is standing, phone in hand. There’s still more work to do, always more work. Dick needs to make sure the deal went through, make sure that Tommy’s gets his promotion and the family stays alright. Because this is his family now. The only one he has left. 

_I’m in this now. I’m gonna stay in this. With you._

With shaking fingers, Dick opens his phone. There’s a voicemail. It’s from Tommy. 

_You did good, Crutches,_ he says. _We crossed the line. It’s the big game from here on out. When you’re done scouting out trouble, meet me back home for some more of those omelettes, yeah?_

Something lodges itself in Dick’s throat. _He doesn’t know,_ he thinks, and hates how relieved it makes him feel, hates how the thought of Tommy knowing fills him with white-hot shame. What would Tommy think, if he had seen the doll on its knees, swallowing Roman’s cock like the little slut it is? 

Dick runs into the bathroom and dry heaves into the sink.

After, he wipes the saliva on the sleeve of his sweatshirt, too exhausted to do anything but stare down the drain. Beads of sweat have gathered along his hairline, rolling down his temple before getting lost somewhere on his cheeks. He takes several deep breaths that feel like gasps. Anything to cool the shame that sets his blood on fire.

Tommy will want to hear back from him soon. He’ll be worried if Dick doesn’t respond. Dick should call him back. 

_Don’t pick up,_ he begs, and hates that he’s begging. Dick Grayson is _strong._ Dick Grayson doesn’t need to beg—

_“Stop,” it cries. “No, no, no—I can’t—Please, Ro—please, D-daddy…”_

“Crutches!” Tommy says on the other end of the line, and Dick’s legs nearly give out as his body is washed in relief. 

“H-hi Tommy,” he says quietly. He slumps forward, closing his eyes as he leans over the sink and imagines warm arms holding him upright. _Safe,_ he thinks. _Safe._

“How you doing, kiddo? Things goin’ smoothly over there?” 

“Fine. Yeah.”

His laugh is uproarious, large enough to make Dick’s throat go tight. “Woah there, Crutches,” he says. “Lay off the enthusiasm. Coulda blown me away.”

Dick licks his lips. The cold air of the bathroom has him feeling alone and vulnerable, shuddering with each shallow intake of breath. “What about you?” he asks, unable to stop himself. “Are—are you okay?”

“Okay?” Another laugh. “You’re too good, kid. I’m real proud of you, you hear me?”

The world blurs and his vision goes hot. Dick squeezes his eyes shut as tears begin to spill over his eyelids and his heart lurches in his chest. He’s not _good,_ he’s a _wreck,_ unable to do the bare minimum without losing it. He doesn’t deserve the affection, doesn’t deserve the praise and the love and the care—

“Anyway, let me know when you’re coming home, son. We’re missin’ ya over here.”

“I’ll see you later, Tommy.”

He doesn’t smile. He can’t even _pretend_ to. 

_The flash of a camera—“Smile for me, baby…”_

The faucet squeaks as Dick turns it on. He splashes his face with the cold water, cleaning off the sweat and the spit, trying to ground himself in reality. This is a motel bathroom. He is Dick Grayson, and he was able to save Tommy Tevis and his family. This is the first good thing he has done in a long, long time. 

When he is finally able to right himself, Dick looks into the mirror and sees once more the marks on the face across from his. A bruise at its cheekbone, one more along its jaw. There is a large purple mark spreading across its neck. Smaller red ones sucked into the flesh. When the doll pulls its collar to one side, Dick sees a bite mark on its collar bone, the beginning of a lash creeping over its shoulder. 

_Weak,_ he thinks. _Broken. Failure._

It hurts to walk. More than it did before. Maybe he was too tired then, too fuzzy to really feel the damage of broken skin and insufficient preparation. 

_Legs forced open. The sound of spit. A sudden, blinding pain. It screams. Roman laughs._

Carefully, Dick limps around the hotel room, picking up his things as if they could shatter beneath his touch. Soon all that is left are his pants, still crumpled on the bathroom floor, still stained with spit and semen. Nausea rises in his throat again. 

He throws the pants in the trash and washes his hands four times. 

_Home,_ Dick thinks. He just needs to go home, back to Tommy and Lynette and Sophia, and then everything will be okay. It was just this once. It was his choice. He’s dangerously close to being useless again, letting a job leave him weak and trembling like this. 

No, not _him._ He is fine. It’s the doll that’s trembling, the doll that loses its balance, the doll that crumples into a heap on the matted carpet. Dick floats above it all, feeling nothing as the doll breaks down and sobs into the palms of its hands. And then they’re both numb, and Dick watches for what feels like hours as the doll stares out the dusty window, blank-faced and removed from the world. 

In the silence he thinks about Tommy, imagines the man drawing him into his arms and telling him things are going to be alright. Then in his mind he falls to his knees, tasting oil and gunpowder, and his stomach lurches as Tommy’s face twists into a shadowy mass, and the doll is on the table again, pretty face crying out as it's fucked and it’s fucked and finally it comes like a whore on Roman’s cock.

Dick isn’t floating anymore. He’s lying on the floor, phone to his ear, listening to Tommy’s voice.

_You did good, Crutches. We crossed the line. It’s the big game from here on out. When you’re done scouting out trouble, meet me back home for some more of those omelettes, yeah?_

The message concludes. Dick plays it again. Then he plays it again. And again. And again. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been lying on the floor when he gets the text message. He doesn’t know how the sender found his number. All he knows is that he can’t look away.

_30 Park Pl #82. 11pm. Be a good boy, Richard. Do the smart thing._

Dick stares. He stares and stares until the words become letters and the letters become lines and his heart is beating so fast he thinks he might throw it up. Tommy’s voice is gone and all that is left is the cold motel floor and a limp body that doesn’t belong to him anymore. And Dick can’t think, and he can’t _breathe,_ and the walls are closing in on him, and there’s a gunshot, and a body, and his legs are pushed apart, and—

Hysterical laughter escapes him. He laughs until he might be crying, and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes as he laughs some more. His hands come back wet. Dick closes his eyes and waits for the sensation of tears on his cheeks, but there’s nothing, not even pain. Numb at last. 

He laughs until his voice gives out, and then there’s nothing left but the cold ache of emptiness. 

_Just once more,_ Dick thinks, as his vision blurs and he cradles his knees against his chest. He hasn’t breathed in minutes, or maybe he has. It’s hard to tell when his whole body is shaking.

 _Just once more._ _I’ll be okay. I can quit this any time._

**Author's Note:**

> 


End file.
